


Clarity

by socomessnow (thoughtfulwishing)



Series: Rifts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Post-His Last Vow, Resolved tarmac scene, Stream of Consciousness, Unresolved Romantic Tension, first person present tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 23:52:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1877196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtfulwishing/pseuds/socomessnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During-and-post-HLV piece tracking Sherlock's thought process from his phone call with Mycroft to his return to the airfield. </p><p>"John. John Hamish Watson. The sight of him right now, in this moment, is the most beautiful, the most surreal thing I have ever experienced: John—my eyes land on his, he's looking back at me, and it's beautiful."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clarity

**Author's Note:**

> First person present tense, purposefully rambling. Trigger warnings: brief mentions of drug use/addiction and suicide. Enjoy.

I'm told the phone is for me: it's my brother. I answer and he tells me that I'm needed. I can't say I'm not surprised; I am. If I were smarter, more clever,  _less stupid_ , I would have anticipated this call. I suppose I couldn't allow myself that optimism. Except it wouldn't have been optimistic, it would have been realistic. Probable, in fact. My brother isn't heartless, though he likes to pretend he is. I like to pretend he is. Sometimes, on very rare occasions, he'll break character.  _(Your loss would break my heart. What the hell am I supposed to say to that?)_

I return the phone to the flight attendant. My head is spinning. I feel dizzy. Jim Moriarty isn't dead. Why isn't that computing? (Who is Moriarty?)

My plane lands. I remove my seatbelt and disembark. My head is spinning. I feel dizzy. Moriarty isn't dead. (Neither am I.) I've been gone for maybe 14 minutes. (May as well have been 14 years.) Mycroft's car is in the same place, except that he's now standing outside of the passenger door. John and Mary are standing outside of their car too. The details don't matter. John. John Hamish Watson. The sight of him right now, in this moment, is the most beautiful, the most surreal thing I have ever experienced: John—my eyes land on his, he's looking back at me, and it's beautiful. It's confusing; I resigned myself to never seeing him again, not as long as I live. I looked at him, I don't even know what I said  _(Sherlock is actually a girl's name),_ I touched his hand, held his hand, I thought I'd never touch it again, I should touch it again right now,  _right now,_  to make sure this is real. My head spins faster; I'm dizzy. (Moriarty?)

I walk toward him. Toward John, John Hamish Watson.  _Captain_  John Hamish Watson, a retired army doctor, that is his full title, that's what he's called: John. My pace quickens but I don't notice it. I walk past my brother with my eyes on  _John Hamish Watson_  but he intercepts me—Mycroft holds out his arm and holds me back. I stop but my eyes are fixed on John's, he's looking at me too, but I can't get to him (why?). My brother tells me  _we have work to do_ , calls me  _little brother_ , I hate that, I hate him, who does he think he's kidding? He loves to downplay grave situations, almost as much as he loves to dramatize the trite. He's the drama queen, not me; he borders on absurdity. I finally look at him and he motions for me to get in the car (is John coming too?). I must have wondered aloud: Mycroft grimaces at me and nods. I look back over at John  _(John Hamish Watson)_ ;he's still looking at me. He's got a look on his face (a look? what look?). Is this really happening?  _What_  is happening? (My head is spinning, swirling with thoughts, coherent, John, incoherent, Moriarty, I'm not entirely sure of anything.)

I get in the car with Mycroft; reluctantly, I tear my eyes away from John Watson. It hurts more this time than before I got on the plane  _(why?)_. Does it, though? Could it actually, physically hurt to look away from something, someone? I don't know. It did. It does. (Maybe I am a bit dramatic.)

We drive. We drive, and Mycroft tells me what little he knows (predictable, all of it), and I listen, say something sardonic, roll my eyes, all the while my head spinning, swirling with thoughts, thoughts of Moriarty,  _of John_ , of Mary,  _oh,_  Mary—

Mycroft is telling me to focus. Me, unfocused? Well, I suppose, but it's not as if that's hindered me before...

"I know this is difficult for you, Sherlock, but for the record, you did make the right decision."

Decision? Did I make a decision?  _(Sherlock is actually a girl's name.)_ I look at him. He's breaking character again. Don't, Mycroft—

"I'm rather proud of you."

I stare daggers at him, mentally castigating him for daring to bring this up now, out loud to be  _heard_. He might break character, but I never do. I pretend I don't know what he's talking about. (I wish I didn't.)

The car pulls in front of The Diogenes Club where we get out. I wish my head would stop,  _stop_  (now isn't the most opportune time to get high, but  _god_ , what I wouldn't give to get away from Mycroft for twenty minutes). (Aren't I clean? I don't have a drug habit. Why am I thinking about getting high?) My words are biting, I should try to be less rude considering my situation, but my brother is being abnormally pious and I'd probably kill him for a bit of cocaine right now but the car holding John is pulling up, John is here,  _relief._

Mycroft tries to push me inside but I glare at him and wait for John.  _John Watson_  is walking toward me and Mary's following close behind him. I can't read her expression but I don't care, I don't care and John doesn't seem to either because he's smiling at me, he falls into step next to me. We don't speak but I'm saying so much, I'm screaming,  _I didn't think I'd ever see you again_ ,my head is spinning with thoughts of John and how it's a miracle that I'm with him again.

I'd happily think of nothing else for the rest of my life, but my "miracle" has a name.

I'll think of nothing but Jim Moriarty for a while, I know. (Even as I push the thought of him to the side, I can't help but think  _brilliant,_  brilliant, a double faked suicide, beautifully played, how did he do it?)

But for the moment, my head is preoccupied with thoughts of John, I'm with John again,  _John_. I don't care that Mycroft is looking at me knowingly, annoyingly, I pretend I can't see him and I pointedly don't look at Mary unless it's absolutely necessary and I'm quite positive that she's doing the same but I don't care.

Spinning, swirling, reeling from the mental trauma of the inception of a delayed-action suicide attempt and the last minute salvation affected by the resurrection of a criminal mastermind and a phone call from my big brother.

But all the same, my thoughts settle, quieten as my sense of John, John's proximity, becomes familiar again. Captain John Hamish Watson: Sherlock is actually a girl's name.  _(In case you were looking for baby names.)_ No—no. It doesn't matter. In general, I try to get what I want and often in order to do that I must be visibly dissatisfied with anything less. Not so here; now, I'm thankful (actually thankful) just to be near him again. We haven't even said anything to each other since I said "to the very best of times" what seems like years ago. But it doesn't matter.

I'm seated next to Mycroft and become vaguely aware that Mary isn't actually with us anymore (obviously uninvited at security, no need for her to be here with us), but it doesn't matter. I'm with John again, I get to see him. My eyes keep flitting over to him, though I don't realize I'm doing it. He's beautiful, even more beautiful now (how is that possible?) after I'd resigned myself to never being able to see him again.

Mycroft gets our attention (me and  _John_ ), and this time I can focus. My head clears like the sky and I grin in spite of myself.

Moriarty is  _alive_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm beginning a series of ficlets, of which this is the first. It's called "Rifts" (aptly so given the miscommunication that colors John & Sherlock's relationship), and coming pieces will likely be similar in style to this. I like the idea of entering either Sherlock's or John's mind and telling his half of the story, especially with the awareness of a different and possibly contradictory line of thought from the other. Stay tuned!


End file.
